Chapter Text
“Anthony, answer your bloody phone! I know you’re there, it’s not like you have anywhere else to be at this time of night. You can’t keep avoiding me forever, you know!”
The old answerphone on the counter beeped loudly as the caller gave a frustrated grunt and hung up. Laura. Must have given up on reaching his mobile and started calling the shop line. Crowley dragged a hand over his haggard face. Great pustulent, mangled bollocks. She was the last thing he needed right now.
He turned his attention back to the large green iguana in the tank in front of him. "Come here, sweetheart,” he whispered to the iguana as he lowered some extra dandelion greens into her tank. “There’s a love.”
Ioanna hadn’t been eating well lately and he was beginning to worry about her. Suddenly, she reared up and bobbed her head forward, and Crowley yanked his hand away just fast enough that her teeth snapped closed over empty air. Definitely something wrong. He would have to ring the veterinarian. Tomorrow, though, as it had already gone ten p.m. It had been several hours since he had locked up the shop to customers for the night, but he was putting off returning to the dark, empty flat above it. Crowley rubbed his eyes with a sigh. Couldn’t avoid it forever.
He had just begun moving towards the back of the shop floor when a polite knock sounded against the glass door at the entrance. He whirled around with a start and was rewarded with the vision of a halo of white-blond hair backlit by a street lamp. Crowley’s heart jumped at the sight. The prim, bow-tied figure attached to the halo smiled delightedly at Crowley and gave him a little wave.
Crowley felt his face break into an answering grin despite his sour mood and the late hour. He strode across the shop floor and unlocked the door, holding it open for his visitor.
“Hiya, angel,” he offered, as Aziraphale bustled in past him. “Having a late one tonight?”
“You’re one to talk,” huffed Aziraphale. “Shouldn’t you have been upstairs ages ago? Really, my dear. I’m sure the snakes and lizards and whatnot can get along without you for a few hours.”
Crowley waved this off awkwardly. "We-e-elll,” he drawled. “Wouldn't want to deny them my charming company.” Now that Aziraphale was inside, Crowley could see signs of anxiety behind his benevolent grey-blue gaze. Crowley’s eyebrows came down sharply. "What’s wrong?”
A mild smile clung valiantly to Aziraphale’s face, but his hands were twisting together and his eyes had alighted somewhere over Crowley’s left shoulder. "Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, darling. I just-- well, I just noticed your shop lights were still on and I thought, as we are both closed up for the evening, perhaps I might join you for a little tipple?”
Aziraphale’s eyes finally found Crowley’s, and his pale eyebrows rose in gentle inquiry. Crowley could feel the strain emanating from him. Not that it mattered; he hardly needed an excuse to invite Aziraphale into his flat.
“Yeah, all right. Come on up.”
The sitting room at the top of the narrow staircase behind the door marked ‘Private’ was sparsely furnished -- Spartan, Crowley told himself -- and rather cramped. But the necessaries were there: a small drinks cabinet with some decent bottles, an angular loveseat that was dark enough to hide the occasional splash of red wine, and a softly-padded leather armchair that he liked to think of as Aziraphale’s Chair. It had a striped lap blanket slung across the back of it and a small side table close at hand to rest a drink on. The most comfortable seat in the house. Crowley never sat there.
“A bit of pinot noir do, tonight? ‘S from Burgundy, even.” Crowley was already pulling two wine glasses out of the cabinet as he spoke.
“Oh, yes please. A good pinot is always such a balm for the soul, I find.”
Crowley turned with the bottle to find Aziraphale wiggling happily into the armchair. He seemed to radiate a gentle light that warmed the cold corners of the room. "Does your soul need balming tonight, angel?” He handed Aziraphale a generous glass and leaned back to paste his long limbs across the loveseat.
Aziraphale sighed and wiggled a little deeper into the armchair. "Well truth be told, it has been a rather trying day. I could stand a little loosening of the limbs, as it were."
Crowley gestured expansively with his glass. "Well, you've come to the right place. Welcome to Crowley's Den of Limb-Loosening Iniquity."
Aziraphale was cracking a small smile. Success. He lifted his glass in a careless toast. "Here's to the healing power of a good red."
"I'll drink to that." Crowley swallowed his wine and regarded his friend carefully. "This wouldn’t have anything to do with Gabriel, would it?” His tone had a studied carelessness that was betrayed by his intent gaze.
Aziraphale’s smile faltered. "Well, no, I mean, yes, but not directly, you understand. It's more that I…" -- he waved his glass towards himself -- "and my, well, it's not as though it's his fault that I can't seem to…" He broke off with a moue of frustration. "Do you mind if we talk about something else?"
"Sure thing, angel. The D. of L.L.I. is here to please. My day was shit too, wanna hear me whine about that instead?"
Aziraphale seemed relieved to grasp at this change of topic. "Was it? I’m sorry to hear it. What happened?”
Crowley hung his head over the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "The usual bloody nonsense. Loads of teenagers wandering into the shop to knock on the animals’ tanks and scare the shit out of them, but never spend a penny, ‘course. Shipment of food for the tarantulas is late and I’m not sure how I’m going to tide them over.” He tipped his head forward. "And, well… fucking Laura. Don’t want to talk about her, though,” he mumbled into his wine.
“Say no more, dear. It seems we could both use some more of this excellent vintage in us.” Aziraphale drained his glass and held it out with an expectant smile. "Shall we?”
Crowley gladly topped him up, and the conversation turned to lighter things. At some point, Crowley got up to grab a second -- third? -- bottle, which seemed as good an excuse as any to turn off the overhead light in favour of a small table lamp, and set the needle to a Velvet Underground LP. Aziraphale must have been ahead of him on the wine because he didn't even make a comment about the dreadfulness of modern music.
Sometimes I feel so happy
Sometimes I feel so sad
“...and thass why you should never- ” Crowley waggled his finger, “-never, ever even think of eating a newt. Toxic as anything, newts. S’why witches use ‘em in their- their- big bowl thingies.” He shook his head, knowingly. “Poison children.”
Aziraphale looked suitably impressed. “Phhw. Very whatsit, that. Shakespeherian. Can’t say I’d fancy a newt.” He looked blearily thoughtful. “Sounds… chewy.”
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Linger on your pale blue eyes
Crowley flopped backwards on the loveseat, his head at one end and his feet hanging well off the other.
Aziraphale was smiling wistfully into the middle distance. "I did eat snake once."
"I'm sorry, you what?"
"Not chewy at all, that. Rather tender, in fact."
"Apff- bugh- how could you?!" Crowley spluttered. "They're so sweet an' brilliant, an'-- an' harmless!"
"Except for the dreadfully poisonous ones, presumably."
"Only if you bother them! If you leave them well enough alone they just, y'know. Do the thing." He undulated his supine body in brief demonstration.
"Are you wiggling?"
Crowley gaped at him in indignation for a moment, then they both dissolved into giggles.
Eventually, the LP ended with a scratch.
"Shit. What timessit?”
Aziraphale pulled out his affectation of a pocket watch from his waistcoat and squinted at it with a serious expression. "Goodness. Something… quite late, I should imagine.”
Crowley dropped his head off the edge of the loveseat at an angle and looked up at him. He noticed with distant surprise that Aziraphale’s eyes were rather more blue than usual when they were upside down.
Crowley found himself considering Aziraphale in silence for a few beats too long. The air seemed thick and slow, wrapping around him like a constrictor. Stop staring at him, you fool.
“I suppose I had better, well.” The blue eyes disappeared from sight as Aziraphale levered himself up from the armchair and began to make his way to the stairs, preparing to return to his own flat above the antique bookshop across the road. "Do try to make it to bed this time, that awful sofa will play hell on your neck. Good night, my dear.”
The door snicked shut behind him. Crowley, still hanging off the edge of the loveseat, listened to the stairs creak as Aziraphale made his way carefully down them. The flat was silent again.
“Night, angel.”